THE WOMAN WHO DROWNED IN HER OWN APARTMENT

Here is a spoken word song from WHEN. Back in the early 90s Tim Farriss (INXS) was interested in doing something with this and we spent a bit of time on it but he was a little bit busy then with the band and it languished while I went off to be a novelist and screenwriter. But now I’m back recording and after it went went in my author talks with @Tony Durant and @Martin Cilia I thought it was too good to waste. Jim Moginie (Midnight Oil) did a fabulous Manzarek style keyboard on it. The artwork is by my long time friend and talented artist David Rose. By the way the line about Trump was in the original version back in about 92 – little did I realise….

WOMAN WHO DROWNED IN HER OWN APARTMENT

This is a song about a woman who drowned in her own apartment

She knew the value of a sou but she didn’t know what art-ment

Sure she could plot its return on a comparative yield curve

But her heart remained empty though her fridge was full of Veuve

She wore smart suits to the battlefield of the Nikkei and the Dow

She rode a dow in Aswan and a swan in Macau

She was a woman of the next millennium but despite all this

She drowned in her own condominium

This is a song about a woman who drowned in her own apartment

It began with a leaky tap just a drip no great excitement

It was beneath her to call a plumber and anyway their prices were too high

She thought her brains would keep her rich and her pride would keep her dry

Hey `wdya wdya’ she was a woman in control

She’d golfed from Gaza to Ginza to the Plaza del Sol

So though her shoes were damp from the strange irrigation still she felt no need to panic at this minor irritation

By the time she called her broker her nail-artist and her shrink

The contents of her flat were under threat from the contents of her sink

But in the executive mind common sense abounds

She stripped her wet clothes from her body moved the cat to higher ground

She glad-wrapped her Walkman and Calvin Klein raincoat

She floated her Sondheims on condoms inflated

She refused to call for help-what would her friends say?

And so she drowned at one pm on a Wednesday

They say as you drown your whole life flashes before your eyes

So what she saw was no more than she could buy

And did she fret and pout as death called her to his disco?

No though she was pissed that now she’d miss that ball in San Francisco

Her crowd were unforgiving sorts, they’d not forget the snub

She had clubbed with Trump, trumped with clubs

But prestige doesn’t help when you’re running out of headroom

A fireman with tats found her bobbing against the ceiling of her bedroom